


Habitual

by xtinethepirate



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Chess is Erik Lehnsherr’s Sexual Orientation, Coda, Fluff, Genosha, M/M, X-Men: Dark Phoenix (Movie) Spoilers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 04:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19143784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtinethepirate/pseuds/xtinethepirate
Summary: “I’m going to be terrible company, you know.”“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”(A quick Dark Phoenix coda, for Paris and what came after.)





	Habitual

**Author's Note:**

> When a movie ends with the boys going on a date in Paris (chess! Erik GRINNING LIKE A LOON! Banter!), the bunnies come a-hopping. Very quick and un-copyedited, so all errors are entirely my fault.

Erik frowned down at the chessboard for a long moment in silence. Privately, Charles couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. For all he’d always tried to teach his students to be graceful in both victory and defeat, well, it served him right for the “go easy on you” crack.

“Problem?”

Erik glanced up at him under his lashes, clearly seeing through the innocent question. With a snort, he sat back in his chair again and drained his espresso in one decisive movement. “Best of three,” he declared, an order instead of a question, and turned to signal the _garçon_ for another round. 

“That wasn’t the agreement.” Charles began to gather up the discarded chess pieces, but pressure against his watch stayed his hand from knocking down the ones still standing on the board. “Erik.”

“I haven’t conceded,” Erik pointed out, and gestured Charles’s hand back down onto the table. The waiter chose that moment to wander over, so Charles held his peace briefly, grumpily. Erik’s perfect, rapid-fire French made him all the more aware of his own public school, phrasebook fumblings, so he just smiled and shook his head when the waiter looked to him, taking a sip of his own, now thoroughly cold, tea. 

“You never concede,” he said finally in an undertone as the man walked away. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t lose. That isn’t how chess works. Now,” he flicked away the gently restraining power on his wrist and gestured at the board, “are you quite finished?”

“Why, do you have other plans today?” 

He did always hate it when Erik was right. It must have shown in his expression, because that same smile as when he’d finally agreed to the first game flashed across Erik’s face again, bright and quick as Storm’s lightning. It made him look a good twenty years younger; it made Charles very aware of how old he felt. 

“Fine, you win.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back toward the sunlight. Still, not wanting entirely to concede himself, he twitched Erik’s hand, making him knock over his king before he could sweep the board clear. 

“You’ll have to get used to it.” 

Even without opening his eyes, Charles could feel the intricate dance of Erik’s powers, the way the pieces with the small bits of metal embedded in their bases rose up and elegantly reformed themselves into fresh ranks on the board. He felt the two pawns Erik hid in his hands once more, and felt the knowing, patient smile. Without looking, he gestured toward Erik’s right hand.

Somehow, he always ended up playing white.

***

He was downstairs in Charles’s hotel the next morn—well, afternoon. Reading the paper, drinking coffee, and looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

“Have you been lurking down here all morning? You’ll frighten the tourists,” Charles remarked acidly. He’d come to Paris to get _away_ from everything (and, yes, to wallow a bit. After twenty years of running his school—well, not his, not anymore—he felt he’d rather earned it), not to have part of his past shadow his steps and rub his nose in his shortcomings.

“I’m like a bad habit, Charles; you miss me when I’m not around.” Erik folded the paper and tapped it absently against his knee. “And what with losing so spectacularly yesterday, you never answered my offer.”

“Badgering me isn’t going to get you an answer any faster,” Charles retorted. “But I’ll certainly let you know if I decide to hurl myself into the Channel, so we can call it even. Now, if you’ll excuse me Erik, I have to go—”

“Hide out in your room again? Bury your nose in a book and feel sorry for yourself? Drown yourself in a bottle—that’s your usual approach, Hank tells me.”

“—to _relax_ , thank you,” Charles broke in, peeved. Erik in a gregarious mood was a rare sight, but not one for which he had much patience today. He would not even touch the fact that he and Hank were apparently still talking; the world seemed to be spinning on just fine, so hell apparently had not yet frozen over. “I simply want some peace and quiet, Erik. To be left alone.”

As though he was the mind reader, Erik leaned forward and regarded him seriously. Charles stubbornly held his gaze, keeping his expression impassive until Erik sighed and shook his head. 

“You’re retired, Charles. Surely that means you can let the weight of the world drop from your shoulders now, at least for a while. They will call you if they need you.”

Yes, they would. But it was the _if_ that hurt. So many years spent thinking he was doing the right thing. Charles bit the inside of his cheek, looked down at his hands, then forced a smile and reached out to steal Erik’s paper. 

“I’m going to be terrible company, you know.”

_“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”_

Charles primly unfolded the paper, not dignifying that. “Where were you planning to drag me today?”

“Well, the last time we were here together, we started an international incident—”

“ _You_ started an international incident. _I_ was trying to save the world.” Save Raven, but oh, it was far too soon to let his thoughts wander down that path. 

Erik shrugged one shoulder, elegantly dismissing the argument, and sipped his coffee. The smile was beneath the surface, lurking around the corners of his eyes. “I thought this time we might just try a museum.”

***

Erik didn’t raise the subject again. Erik, Charles felt, was very pointedly not raising the subject again, but he was too ethical (or too cowardly) to peek into his mind and see for himself. 

What he did was show up at Charles’s hotel every morning—and it was morning; Charles’s wheelchair would start to rattle if he tried to have a lie-in. A bad habit indeed. They took in the Louvre, and the Orsay, and bickered companionably about the merits of impressionist and post-impressionist art. They played chess in the Tuileries, and this time Charles won, best two out of three (he refused to entertain going to five games). They even spent a morning at the Eiffel Tower, which would have been unbearably crowded and touristy were it not for the brief glimpse of wonder Charles caught on Erik’s face, his powers flowing up along the intricate architecture of metal. 

They didn’t talk much; they didn’t really need to, never had. It was strange being in someone’s company without having something demanded of him—comfort, or instruction, or (more recently, since he’d tried his hand at politicking), shameless ass-kissing. It was a kindness, albeit one in a uniquely bullheaded Erik sort of way, to be chivvied out into the city so that he didn’t have any time to let his thoughts spiral into reinforcing echoes of guilt and self-pity. 

When they did talk, he noticed that Erik smiled more than he’d remembered, and his teasing comments were warmer, didn’t take aim at vulnerable spots. How their fortunes had changed—Genosha clearly agreed with him, for all he didn’t bring up the subject again.

It wasn’t until Erik had seen him through check-in at Charles de Gaulle that Charles realized he really didn’t plan to ask again. They would part ways here, and likely not speak again for another decade, for all their talk of friendship. _Plus ça change_ indeed. The smiling stewardess in the Air France uniform holding his ticket and ready to escort Charles to his gate clearly was waiting for just that, all restrained energy and a customer service smile slapped on over a well of impatience. 

“What would it even look like, my coming home with you?” he asked abruptly, watching Erik looking up at the flight boards. 

“I imagine it would look rather like you getting off a plane in Genosha, Charles,” Erik drawled without looking at him. “Very probably carrying three tons of books in an assortment of suitcases. I can try to arrange some fireworks, if you want to make the occasion more momentous.” 

The woman’s impatience really was jangling on Charles’s nerves, and he smiled up at her tightly. “You go on ahead,” he said in his barely-improved French, adding a touch of telepathic imperative to the words. “If I miss the flight I’ll just buy another... plane. Erik, you are well aware that isn’t what I meant.”

Erik turned to watch the stewardess hustle off, then raised an eyebrow at Charles. “She still had your ticket, old friend.” But when Charles just stared at him, he sighed, spread his hands. “What would you have me say? It’s a simple life. Peaceful enough, in its way. You’d have your fill of peace and quiet, if you wanted it. I spend most of my time farming, these days.”

“You, farming?” Well, it explained why he didn’t dress like James Bond these days, but it was difficult to get his head around the idea. 

Erik’s lips twitched. “I’ve given up all my wicked ways and become a farmer, yes. Is it so hard to picture?”

It wasn’t, come to think of it. Charles could all too easily see Erik in full helmet and cape holding a shovel. Genoshan Gothic. He pursed his lips to try to keep from snorting outright. From the wry look on Erik’s face, he didn’t entirely succeed. 

An announcement echoed through the terminal, distorted beyond Charles’s grasp of the language, and Erik inclined his head slightly. “Go buy your plane, old friend,” he said fondly, squeezing Charles’s shoulder as he stepped past him. “You’ll know where to find me.”

Charles watched him slip into the crowds, effortlessly blending in with the people around him. Still, his mind was a bright spot in his awareness long after he was out of sight; eyes half closed, Charles followed him as far as he could. “I always do.”

***

Being retired, he was hardly going to spend a chunk of what remained of his disposable funds on actually buying a plane. _Chartering_ one, however, was still well within his means. 

As the island came into view, he reached out for the mind he was seeking, falling readily back into an old habit. Despite his best intentions to enjoy his continued trek around Europe after Paris, he had truly missed Erik. 

_I thought I might try my hand at farming,_ he said by way of greeting, heart beating a bit faster. It had been several months; Erik might have regretted his offer by now. But the reply came back immediately:

_You’ll last two days, but you’ve come this far—_ a clear image of where to land dropped into Charles’s mind. Grinning, he passed the directions on to the pilot. 

The place was lush and green and fairly spartan, and it was with some difficulty that Charles pushed his chair through the thick grass toward where he could feel Erik coming while the pilot struggled with his heavy (and, yes, book-laden) suitcases. Before he could get too far, a few plates of metal came skimming low over the ground toward him, flattening themselves into a pathway as Erik jogged down the slope toward him. 

“You should have told me you were coming,” he remarked casually as though surprised pleasure weren’t radiating from his thoughts, and levitated the bags away from the startled pilot. “I would have been more prepared.”

“Of all the places I expect to find wheelchair accessible, Erik,” Charles replied, experimentally rolling his chair along the short walkway. It shifted under his wheels, barely perceptible, as the metal pulled itself forward in time with his pace. “Small island nations don’t break the top fifty.” 

“I meant buying you a sunhat,” Erik retorted with a grin, Charles’s bags leading the way up the hill as he fell into step beside him. “Perhaps a fussy little trowel. Everything an English gardener needs.”

“I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty—” Charles stopped as they came over the rise. He’d heard about Genosha, of course, on the television after it was founded, and referenced in the odd news article thereafter. No journalists were allowed on the island, so he hadn’t truly realized the scale of what Erik had started here. It was a bit ramshackle in places, true, with houses a mismatch of repurposed shipping containers brightly painted, of cobbled together wood and sheets of metal, and even of pieces of boats themselves. Apart from a small pond in the middle, the space not dedicated to houses was for working, laden gardens and crops that were all actively being tended. 

Or had been, at least, until they’d come into view—the people were all staring up at them now, with flickers of uncertainty. Charles noted the subtle movement of Erik’s hand, and felt the atmosphere relax once more. 

Except for Erik himself. Erik, whose mind had pulled back into its defences during their walk up the hill, and yet whose tension was palpable. Having come halfway around the world for this, Charles slipped gently under the first layer of those walls. Erik’s eyes flicked sidelong to his face, aware of what he was doing, before he sighed. “Old habits,” he muttered, but let Charles the rest of the way in.

_Ah._ So that’s what it was. Charles couldn’t help but reach up and squeeze his arm, even if the angle was a bit awkward. “It’s incredible, old friend.” Now that the alert of a stranger in their midst had passed, the serenity of the place washed over him like sunlight, dozens of minds contentedly about their business. “I don’t think I’ve visited somewhere so calm since...I don’t know that I ever have.” He shook his head and smiled up at his friend, glad to see the concern in his mind ebb. “I am honoured to be here, Erik, truly.”

That won him a scoff that poorly masked genuine pleasure, before Erik led Charles down the small hill, the pathway dissolving behind Charles’s chair and reforming in front of him. 

It was almost bittersweet, seeing Erik so utterly at ease here, seeing the way people turned to him for approval as he passed. _Oh my friend, what we might have built together._

***

“I did tell you you should have warned me you were coming,” Erik pointed out. “You’re welcome to sleep outside if you’d like. Or find someone else willing to bunk with you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Charles was still amused and not bothering to hide it. “I simply thought you’d said you’d become a farmer, not a fisherman.”

“Mm. My mansion is on my other island, I’m afraid,” Erik gestured the door open and waved Charles’s suitcases inside, “so you’ll have to make do.” 

Charles looked around the small space, everything meticulously neat and in its place and so utterly _Erik_ that it made his chest ache. The room he’d had at the estate had always felt rather like a hotel room—an anonymous place that was just for passing through. This felt like, well, a _home_.

“The houses here are all made from what we can salvage, so it will take some time before we have one ready for you,” Erik was saying as Charles cautiously explored the space. The small bed was just big enough to fit the two suitcases under, though a few inches of one poked out on the far side. “Pathways for you to get around properly will come first, though, so you won’t need to rely on me all the time. Are you hungry?”

Charles turned from considering a small photograph tucked into a nook by a window, the woman and child smiling back at him from across the years.

“Just tired, I think,” he replied, his throat tight. Maybe he could add a picture of Raven there at some point. He couldn’t remember if he’d brought one with him, now. It seemed terribly important, but Erik had only just put everything away, and he was already imposing. He rubbed one hand over his face. “Just tired,” he repeated. 

Erik hesitated for a moment, then nodded toward the bed. “Get some sleep.” 

Charles looked around the space, questioning, but Erik was already laying out a bedroll next to the small driftwood table. “I—thank you, Erik.”

He waved it off. “You saved me from drowning once; the least I can do is offer the same.” He straightened and gestured to the suitcases, tugging them closer to the edge of the bed so that Charles could lean over from a seated position and reach the handles without issue. “Get some rest, and call me if you need anything.” He paused in the door, drumming his fingers against the frame for a moment. “And welcome home.”

***

It took a few months before the thought occurred to him. Generally speaking, he would have liked to believe he was quick on the uptake, and only had in his defence the fact that the days on Genosha were very full with the basics of survival. 

“Erik,” he said, rolling over on the bed and peering down int he vague direction of where Erik’s bedroll was—it was too dark to make out much more than shadows. 

Tiredly, amused, “Insist all you want, Charles, but I’ll remind you which of the two of us actually reads French before you harp on about translation again.”

“I wasn’t _harp—_ ” no, he wasn’t going to let himself be sidetracked. “I was just thinking, old friend. I watched you rebuild an entire mansion in the space of, what, a week? Even with Jean and Storm’s help to move the stonework, it took you no time at all.”

“Mmm?” Drowsy, not entirely paying attention.

“So I’m wondering how long you expect me to believe it would actually take you to make a house out of that pile of scrap metal you have in reserve.”

Silence, more wakeful now. Even in the darkness, Charles could tell Erik was smirking. 

“I’m a very busy man, Charles.”

“Of course,” Charles didn’t bother trying to conceal his own smile up at the shadowed ceiling. “Too busy to keep up a pretence, I’d imagine.”

Another, much longer silence. Then there was soft movement in the dark, and the mattress dipped next to Charles. 

The bed really was too tiny, and Erik gave off heat like a furnace. But his sleep was deep, serene for the first time since Charles had known him. He wondered if Genosha, if this, would quell his own nightmares, given time. 

***

He did end up getting sunburned. As promised, Erik bought him a ridiculous hat.


End file.
